opened door could not be closed until it was withdrawn. "No! I want to
see my son, Richard Saunders. Is he inside?"

The porter instantly threw open the door.

"Yes, sir," he said. "They're expecting you, sir. Kindly come this way,
sir."

The old man followed, wondering at the cordiality of his reception.
There must be some mistake. Expecting him? How could that be! He was
led into a most sumptuous parlour where a cluster of electric lamps in
the ceiling threw a soft radiance around the room.

"Be seated, sir. I will tell Mr. Hammond that you are here."

"But--stop a moment. I don't want to see Mr. Hammond. I have nothing to
do with Mr. Hammond. I want to see my son. Is it Mr. Hammond the
banker?"

"Yes, sir. He told me to bring you in here when you came and to let him
know at once."

The old man drew his hand across his brow, and ere he could reply the
porter had disappeared. He sat down in one of the exceedingly easy
leather chairs and gazed in bewilderment around the room. The fine
pictures on the wall related exclusively to sporting subjects. A trim
yacht, with its tall, slim masts and towering cloud of canvas at an
apparently dangerous angle, seemed sailing directly at the spectator.
Pugilists, naked to the waists, held their clinched fists in menacing
attitudes. Race-horses, in states of activity and at rest, were